In which Jeba and I take a frantic train trip, meet former U.S. champion ballroom dancers and - finally - get to Belfast.
The day after our Riverdancing drunk old ladies experience, Jeba and I had been planning to catch a lift from Galway to Belfast with Jecr’s future brother-in-law, Anch. When we called to confirm our plans, Anch, a jovial fellow with a dislike of schedules, let us know that he'd decided not to leave until a day later and thus would not be arriving until the day before the wedding. At an unspecified time. Or possibly the day OF the wedding. He wasn't sure - but we were still welcome to catch a ride! Probably.
Since this was my first time as a bridesmaid, I assumed that I should be somewhere near the bride for at least two days before the wedding, to help deal with any wedding-related disasters. I don't know what I thought might happen - that Jecr's cats might leave decorative turds on the cake or perhaps that Jecr and her mother Frcr might get into such a huge brawl that Caho and I would be left, at the eleventh hour, to figure out the bride's complicated, restrictive underwear. Regardless, I thought that showing up would be a good start to the bridesmaiding experience, so we told Anch we'd make our own arrangements.
Wary of Jeba and the bladder damage another cross-country bus trip might cause, Jeba and I bought tickets on the next best route, which involved taking the train across Ireland from Galway to Dublin, hoofing it across Dublin to from one train station to another to switch train lines and then heading north by train to Belfast. Unfortunately, the day we chose to do travel marked the beginning of a 10-week rail strike in the south of the country. We were giddy to learn that the train lines we'd booked on were unaffected but the agent at the train station warned us to get there early. Because with most of the train lines not running, EVERYONE IN IRELAND would be taking the same train.
I don't know about you guys, but I . . . am a window seat person. In fact, when I do not get a window seat, I feel nauseated and claustrophobic and panicky. The exception to this rule is if I am on a plane and have the aisle seat AND the middle seat empty. This, as you may imagine, rarely happens.
Travelling with Jeba generally worked out, because she is an aisle seat person. While I rush onto the conveyance at the first opportunity and jam myself triumphantly into a window seat, Jeba takes her time, preferring to board the vehicle at the last possible moment. Once seated, she often proceeds to mock my cramped posture, for chances are I've been sitting in my window seat for a good half hour before she gets on. Jeba has never been able to fully grasp my panic at the idea of not getting a window seat - and I still feel that, clearly, her method of travel is insane.
We left Galway very early, got to Dublin no problem and managed to arrive at the other train station in Dublin nearly two hours before our train to Belfast was leaving. We located the gate where our train would be boarding and I got all excited at being close to first in line - window seat for SURE! - when Jeba said: "Great! We have time for lunch!" And then she went and SAT DOWN to eat lunch!! At a table!! On a day when the trains in the south were on strike!! The line for our train was ALREADY FORMING! SWEET LAVENDER LORD!!
I really could not get a grip on the idea that Jeba preferred to have a leisurely lunch and read a magazine while sitting down instead of standing in line with me and four hundred of my closest friends for two hours. She could not have shocked me more if she had informed me that there was a roving band of gypsies behind me and they wanted me to be their queen. Fortunately I wanted to 
stand in line for two hours, so it all worked out. And my early line standing paid off with a lovely four-seater with a table. Jeba congratulated my on the spoils of my sacrifice and I gazed at some sheep out the window.
We knew that we wouldn’t have the four seater to ourselves and I'd seen some of the yahoos in line. I heartily wished for someone inoffensive to join us. And that’s when we met Ken and Sheila.
Ken and Sheila were straight out of Strictly Ballroom. Ken was a gregarious American with a Tanfastic membership and Sheila was a dignified Brit in a wide-brimmed hat and bright red lipstick. They were probably in their late fifties. And within minutes of meeting us, Ken and Sheila revealed that they were former U.S. Ballroom Dance champions. CHAMPIONS, people! They were a little stand-offish at first, particularly when they found out that Jeba is an economist, but they blossomed like giant, feather-trimmed chiffon skirts when they heard I was a "fellow artist" and began to discuss capital "A" Art with me enthsiastically. They told tales of travel and competitive triumph and the crazy fox-trotting world of ballroom dance. They spoke to Jeba the economist sternly about the need for more Arts funding. I could not look away as Ken waved Sheila’s hand away from opening her Perrier. At first I thought he was just being macho but then it became clear that his main concern was that she might BREAK HER NAIL. I loved these people.
I was, naturally, sad to see Ken and Sheila go when we reached Belfast. They gave me their card, for their dance studio in California and exhorted me to visit. I never have - but I do still have the card. And one day, maybe I'll get out to Glendale, California and say "Hey, Ken and Sheila - you were really neat." And they will have NO IDEA WHO I AM.
